Dancer in the Dark
by soshi185
Summary: Every time I'm with him I feel different. Fear... anger... And yet some incomprehensible attachment. We are Varia, we aren't normal. Our feelings aren't normal./ Belphegor x adult fem!Mammon


**At the beginning I would like to thank Luka! Because English isn't my first language she agreed to help me and correct my mistakes! Thank you, I love you! :***

**Wow, it is so… long. The longest fanfic I've ever made! I'm sorry if it's TOO long… There was one more scene, but I removed it xD I don't like multichapters stories, usually I give up after three chapters xD So here's my one-shot. **

**Why fem!Mammon? Because I love fem!Mammon! xD Come on, everyone wants to see how Varia would act if they had a female member ;) Besides as long as we don't know his/her gender I can do whatever I want. And I prefer fem!Mammon. She needs more love!**

**I'm sorry if they are OOC... But it's really, REALLY hard to write a romance with Bel and Mammon, I tried to keep them in character as much as it's possible. **

**KHR does not belong to me!**

* * *

><p>What our dreams are?<p>

I wonder about it when I'm standing in front of my big mirror with the black frame decorated with ancient symbols. Thousands of times I saw there a black reflection, rather resembling a ghost visiting the kids in the nightmares. I got used to lying to myself. When the time passed I almost stopped to pay attention to a light mist surrounding the ghost. Illusion mist. I covered myself with a lie like an artist painting on his canvas the picture I wanted to see. I could look in the mirror for hours, just as if I was expecting that fiction suddenly would become a reality, that illusion is no longer just a powerful lie. And maybe the person standing before a mirror wouldn't be longer a small child, with longing in her eyes looking at the form which she will never be able to achieve.

I'm standing before my black mirror. I look at the black figure. I love black. It is the color of the night which covers all the other colors when the darkness falls. It hides what you don't want to see... I'm hiding in a black room and I want to take off my black cloak which hides all the memories of my life. My hand freezes in the air. And I know that I don't have the courage to do it.

The truth is too painful. I prefer to believe in lies.

I always thought that I dream about this body; about recovering it. I wanted to look at my real self again. I wanted to control my life again.

I'm standing in front of a black mirror and I see myself without the illusion. I was wrong. In fact I don't look like a ghost. I think about majestic chessman, the black queen standing alone on her chess box. I look at my real self and I feel hatred, disgust. I'm not going to take off my hood and look at my eyes.

And maybe I didn't hate my previous form? I have always hated myself. I have my real body back but nothing has changed. I will always be the same. And my body turned out to be worth as much as the money I collected through the years. With a crooked smile I think about all the enormous sums I took after each mission. The money I didn't spend. I just collected them.

I thought I dreamed about money. I wanted to have them. When I felt banknotes in my hands I felt safe. I kept telling myself that I will never worry about my future. It doesn't matter how I earned. I wanted to have so much money and never feel like in the time when I was a child; to build a palace whose walls could hide me.

Money is just paper.

The castle is cold stone.

I've gotten everything I wanted. And I have never felt so strongly about how worthless everything I have is.

* * *

><p>I wonder why I never feel fear.<p>

It was dawn, so faded; pale pink light gradually flooded the hall. I never sleep at this time. I always get up first, walking silently through the corridors and watching the sunrise. White which, again, engulfed black.

He always went to bed last. Frequently when I got up, instead of sleeping, he wasted his time on stupid fun, just like other teenagers. I feel strange when I hear music or the sounds of the TV coming from his room. It was normal. Ordinary. Average. In a place like this it became abstract, bizarre. It was terrifying in all this normality. Sometimes, however, he disappeared in the night and returned in the morning.

"Where were you, Bel?"

I don't know why I ask. I can see it. And even if he tried to hide it better, I would guess without his words.

Maybe I just want to say something when I see him in the morning? Or maybe say this name? He never asked. I don't know whether he didn't care or he just didn't want to ask. But since I met him, I've never said his full name.

Belphegor.

One of the Seven Great Demons. The name which excitation fear, the monster which draws pleasure from the wrongs of others. This is the biblical Belphegor. This is our Belphegor. Calling him briefly, affectionately, it became my habit. Over the time other members do it too. Our Belphegor becomes Bel.

In moments like this I realize how much it doesn't fit him. The boy standing in front of me isn't Bel. It's Belphegor. My sight is running away from the bloody traces which he left behind when came back. He is unable to see it thanks to hood which hides my eyes. But I think he has guessed. Mad smile widens even more, quiet chuckle escapes from his mouth.

"Is it important?"

I deny fast. I'm curious what I'll find in the newspapers tomorrow. Perhaps only an unknown homeless man died a mysterious death, so no one will be interested? Or information programs will be talking about two murdered and raped young girls, found in the bushes. There was always a probability that he wanted a little fun, so horribly mutilated corpses are hidden somewhere deep, where no one will find them.

I didn't care. In the end we were the same.

I'm turn away with grace, my cloak rustling softly. I want to go out, but he grabs my hand. I raise my head, looking at him. His golden hair is sticking to his face, and on his cheek, there's a slight scratch. I think it's a wound from the nails. Clothes drenched in blood. He's drenched in blood. Biblical demon has left hell and unleashed its wrath on Earth.

"You really don't care what I've done, do you?"

I still don't feel fear.

I know it all. I know the excitement in his voice, demonic grin and rapid breathing. I saw him killing. I don't know if people can harden into something like that. I think there is something wrong with us. We don't even have the right to call ourselves human beings. That's probably why I'm never scared of him, even now.

"I do not. Do what you want. But I admit that I don't understand you. "

My voice is icy calm. I'm always calm. I never lost control over myself.

Just once, when I was a child...

His smile grew even wider and he let go of my hand. He doesn't snicker under his breath now. He laughs. He laughs so loud that probably everyone here will wake up soon. I don't move. I wait quietly knowing that this attack of madness will disappear after few minutes; that he will behave as if nothing had ever happened. As if a shower won't only wash away the blood, but the insane as well. Until the next night.

"I don't know why you're wasting time if you haven't got anything in return. The missions at least give you money."

He reacts to my words with a quiet snort. He stops laughing and looks at me with a smile, amused by this whole situation. I'm starting to suspect that he returns so late in the morning deliberately. To come across at me and see what I would say. That doesn't bother me. I like talking with him. I'm not afraid of him. We are the same.

"You're a cruel girl, Mammon."

This time I smile. I rarely smile. I see no reason to do it. I never do something that brings no benefit to me. Only from time to time, when I'm with him; I do something that doesn't suit me. What I wouldn't do if I was alone.

He looks at me and seems to be pleased. I don't know whether my smile is something special but he always tries to see it. It's another thing I don't understand. I never laugh, no matter what happens. He is always smiling as if he couldn't do anything else. The sadness or anger is unnatural for him. This is normal. We cannot change that.

"I know. I'm just as cruel as you. "

It ends our conversation. I know that he won't stop me now. Otherwise this game could be boring. He is like a child, always looking for a new entertainment for himself. And destructive to what bored him.

Despite the fact that we are the same he's different from us.

He doesn't kill, like me, for the money.

Like a boss, for power.

Or even like captain, fighting for the sake of fighting.

Bel is the only one of us who kills because he likes it. He loves killing. He takes pleasure in screaming and crying. This is his life.

And somewhere, deep inside, I have to admit that I'm a little afraid of him.

* * *

><p>Last time I was afraid was when I was still a child.<p>

I defeated all human impulses, even those as basic as fear. I learned how to be calm. Controlling. Terrifying. Indifferent. I felt nothing. Happiness and hatred, it has lost all meaning for me. It makes no sense to be afraid. I just have to be secure and escape if it's necessary. Fear is for fools who can't think logically.

That night I feared for the first time.

"Let me go, Bel."

I didn't add that it hurts. I know that he would be happy. That he would strengthen his grip. I don't let my voice tremble. I spoke normally, coldly. As if it was just a normal conversation. And just my rather intensive attempt to free my hands testify to the fact that it is not normal.

"Prince is bored and you're interesting."

He squeezes my wrists so hard that the moan involuntary escapes from my mouth. He seems to be happy. With no problem he pushes me to the wall. I feel pain in my head and for a moment I intake my breath sharply, but when I speak again, I'm almost indifferent. I say it just a little sharper, imperiously.

"If you don't let me go, I'll kill you."

I don't lie. He knows that I would have no resistance to kill him, but I don't know if I would be capable to do it. He often fought with often trained together. We often were together on missions. Although I guarded the secrets of my illusions like anything else I began to suspect that he knew them and slowly, he started to see through them. I couldn't be surprised. I know that he is a genius unlike anyone else here. Now, it's not dangerous. Now. My illusions are still too powerful for him.

"Prince doesn't listen to any orders."

He smiles even wider. I saw that smile so many times. Others cannot see it, but I learned how to read his intentions after his smile. This was the cruelest.

Suddenly he releases my hands. When the blood reaches to my fingers I try not to wince. But he doesn't let me go. I don't understand what he wants to do. If he is going to use one of his daggers on me I'll defend myself without a problem. I don't like using my powers unnecessarily. But if I have to, I will do it.

I had prepared an escape route.

I wasn't afraid.

And then his hand goes to my face. For a moment I don't know what's going on. I stand, petrified, trying to read his intentions. And I guess. But it is too late. Too late for that one second which I would need to get free.

The fear paralyzes me. My body reacts in such an ordinary, human way that it is funny to me. Heart pounding. Breathing fast. Hands tremble. He shouldn't see it. Nobody can see it...

I make a decision.

He takes off my hood. I wonder if he noticed. A light mist that wrapped me like a cocoon, defending the truth. Lies surrounds me again although I swore to myself that I would never do it again. Maybe he saw it but recognized that the game becomes more interesting? Or maybe he just didn't notice, even if he's a genius?

He looked at me with a broad smile on his face, holding me so tight that I can't get out. I am sure he saw fear in my eyes. From the beginning he knew that I would never allow him to do it. That is one of the secrets that I wanted to take to the grave. I guess it makes him smile even wider than before. Knowing that he couldn't do anything worse to me.

"Ordinary, violet eyes? I was hoping for something more ..."

He doesn't end a sentence. In quiet corridor a slap is heard. I slap him with my free hand as strongly as I can. His cheek becomes red. He is silent for a moment. We are both silent.

I could've killed him. I could've attacked him and not have given him a chance to defend, but there was something that made me react like that. My pride. This slap was the proudest thing I could do at the time.

For a moment he is slightly surprised, but then he smiled. He started to laugh. Quietly. Louder. He was satisfied. Pleased with my response. I only made him happy. That makes me sick.

"Damn, masochistic Prince. Don't touch me ever again, because next time I'll kill you. I don't care what boss will do. Even if I lose all my money your death will be worth it. "

I don't think he heard me. He laughed too loud. I wanted to hit him again. Harder. But I would've made him more pleased. I wasn't going to play his sick games. I didn't have the time or strength.

He let me get away. His face was painted in triumph, mine only in a pathetic expression of defeat. I was leaving him alone with his joy.

"You're crying ... I never thought I could see something so unusual."

I didn't hear repentance in his voice. How could it be? I can't even imagine how his voice would sound if he apologized to someone. I should've done something. Said something. Instead I walked away without a word. I wasn't going to waste my time on him. I wasn't going to lose control. I was over it. It didn't bring me any benefit. It made no sense to do something unnecessarily.

I pulled the hood back on my head, trying to hide my face even more than before. At the same time I was taking off the illusion. I felt safe. I wiped my eyes and reproved myself for the fact that after years back, I let emotion be more important than logic.

Suddenly I stopped. I felt cold metal against my skin. He didn't stick a dagger in my neck, only pushed the blade into my skin, hard enough to get pink streaks, but also not enough to incite blood. I froze in place, not moving. I heard a silent chuckle behind me. Then he moved closer, whispering something in to my ear.

"Don't be afraid. The prince is not going to kill his favorite toy. Without you there, it would be too boring. But you know what? You are interesting. Why do you hide your eyes? They are pretty. "

I stood motionless, I was calm and I controlled my body and emotions. This was ridiculous. My peace of mind. Even in that situation. Even when the crimson drops of blood started dripping on my neck. I didn't scream. I was too proud. And even if every wound reminded me of childhood, I didn't lose control.

"I could ask you the same question. Do you have a specific reason to hide your eyes? "

He removed the dagger so I could breathe freely. I didn't realize that I was holding my breath. My hand instinctively went to my neck, massaging it gently. I wanted to stand face to face with him, but he went the other way without looking at me.

"Prince does not have to answer to your questions."

He didn't wait for my reaction. He went away as if it was completely normal. Maybe it was? Yeah, I guessed so ... I didn't have to grieve for him. The fact that he put a knife to my throat, this is who we were, are. This was where we live. We wanted to kill each other, but we have no right. Get used to it or go away. This was, is life in Varia. But at that moment, hatred burned in me. Not because he could've killed me ...

"If you want to see my face again, you better pay first!"

It was the most important. He had no right to do that.

He probably didn't hear my words.

* * *

><p>I don't like fighting.<p>

I've never learned to fight directly. Of course, I was nimble and quick and that allowed me to call myself a member of the Varia. But I knew that I was too weak to fight with my bare hands. I didn't care. I didn't master the power of illusions to fight as an ordinary man, but I have heard of mystics who have trained their body too, and the defeat in the fight against Mukuro Rokudo, one of them, still was in my memory as the unwanted burden which I insistently tried to get rid of.

I don't like fighting for another reason also. It is dirty. I hated being covered with blood. I loathed it just like everything else. I didn't like being dirty, sweaty and bloody. I didn't like the thing that the other members of the Varia loved most in the fight.

That's why I was standing on the side, only occasionally glancing at the main battlefield, covering them. The man kneeling in front of me looked at me with horror in his eyes. I involuntarily smiled. I liked it. I liked the imploring expression on his face which people always had before their death. It amused me how pathetic people can be. Without a word they try to beg for mercy. Like worms, there is nothing left but to hope.

Before a man falls at my feet I gave him the last, farewell smile. Others probably never see a man who realizes he's dying. They were too hyperactive and killed too quickly to give their victim a moment before death, but I don't use any weapon except tentacles which I created. I could calmly watch how they raise my goal a few inches above the ground and wrap around his neck, preventing breathing. I never killed otherwise. This way was clean. It doesn't leave blood behind. I preferred to liquidate without damaging the body. I killed in the other way only once...

When a man dies, the tentacles immediately disappear, leaving only a nearly invisible mist floating in the air. With a slight sigh of boredom, I turn away, intending to move on. I'm taking a few steps, looking around carefully, but I stop. I sense something, and I realized that I sensed it too late.

The stranger suddenly falls limp next to me.

I jumps automatically, for a moment I think that this is just a trick. He is stationary. I hear quiet moan. He's alive.

I'm alive.

I'm surprised. Thoughts in my mind appear slower than it should in this situation. I look at him and at a small spot of blood which appears on his clothes. Single drops begin to drip slowly to the ground, staining the ground on scarlet. I look at the three silver knives, now with red blemishes, protruding from his back. Slowly I turn my head.

He stands in the shadow, still deftly holding the narrow blades between his fingers. It seems to me that for a moment he's looking at me without saying a word. I don't know. I can't see his eyes. After that he comes to the boy lying in the grass and squats beside him. On his face appears a derisive smile.

"Still alive? You are pretty good ..."

The boy tries to say something else. But his words were drowned out by the sound of crying.

Bel chuckles under his nose, piercing a dagger through the boy's hand.

The scream is somehow pacifying. It gives us awareness of our strengths. When I hear his scream, I feel safe. I could lie on the ground, bleed slowly. But he was lying there. When the victim becomes the abusive, everything changes. This is not a murder. It's defense. We're not bad. We just live and we want to live.

I turn my head; I leave him a free hand. I'm going to wait for a while and watch if he'll forget our order. And only my eyes fixed on the tree can remind him how much I despise his fun.

My tightly wrapped cloak body begins to tremble. Just a little bit, so nobody can see it.

I don't know if there is anything more pathetic. An assassin who hates the sight of blood. I feel that it is an affront to my pride. I used to think that even self-pride isn't important until I have money. But the thought of breaking down in front of Bel is somehow terrible. It is like a tiny germ of all those debilitating emotions that I experienced a few nights ago.

The scream rips the air again, this time even louder. For a moment I am happy that it rescued me from thinking. But as soon as I realize what he was doing I withdraw a step backward. And it's more and more difficult to control my emotions.

This boy is still alive.

Bel easily cut off his finger, as if it is a paper. When his victim writhes in pain he begins to cut off another, counting aloud. Mad expression on his face is disturbing, even for me. It seems to me even more insane.

The boy lying on the ground starts begging for mercy. He does not ask for him to be let go. He prays for death. He knows that Varia never releases its victims.

He chuckled softly, coming closer to him, almost whispering.

"You're loud, you know? I guess I'll cut your tongue. "

I know this is a moment when I should say something. That is why I'm always his partner during the missions. Reason and madness. Perfect balance. His effectiveness and cruelty, my professionalism and composure. It was contradicted. It complements each other.

Nevertheless, I stand motionless, looking at them involuntarily. I know he will do it. I'm surprised that it is so easy. Another simple cut. The dagger comfortable as a scalpel. His hand, certain and reworked. The boy hasn't got the strength to push him, too injured and weak. The blood flows out of his mouth. A stream of blood. Perhaps in other circumstances it would be beautiful? Somewhere deep inside I understand Bel's passion. The deepest red, lazily paintings its own patterns on the pale face. It's like an art. This modern, understandable, where strange and ugly things suddenly become extraordinary and mesmerizing. When I first saw so much blood I understood it. I was happy, red walls were only the proof of my strength. Deliverance. And the tears that I wept where the tears of happiness.

The boy begins to simmer. Blood, which he is trying to spit, is mixed with a saliva. Perfect scarlet drips on the ground, dirty and black ground. It becomes the mud, filthy... The boy screams, he's smeared with blood, dirty from the ground, abundant tears still streaming down his cheek.

This reminds me how hideous death is. How I hate the blood. I despise it. When I see this scene I can see another, from my past...

I'm an illusionist, reworked in deceiving myself. Red wall isn't a proof of the strength. The truth was different. It's weakness. Powerlessness. This is not deliverance. Murder only locked me in another cage. I thought it's the path chosen by me, but I experienced the same despair. It wasn't the tears of joy. It's a fear. I'm afraid of what I am.

"I wonder if I could rip your stomach. Apparently the human gut may be 5 meters. I'd like to check it. In the end I'm a genius, I want to see everything for myself. "

I feel drunk. No, I was never drunk. But that's how I imagined this feeling. You do something what you normally avoid. I preserve the remains of consciousness, yet subconsciously feeling that my actions are completely normal. I felt it when I lost control.

I didn't even wonder. I just kneel in front of him, holding his hand as hard as I can. Indeed, the blade stops a few inches above the stomach of this guy. Still, I squeeze his hand so hard that my fingers are getting pale white.

"He's dead! Do you hear me? He's already dead ..."

On Bel's face I can see surprise. These are the first words I said to him since that night when he saw my eyes. I am also more and more surprised. This is a macabre scene - he's covered with blood, I'm holding his hand, between us a boy who finally died. This scene isn't different from what I see normally. And at the same time he acts different.

For a moment he's looking at me in silence. He's not smiling. He takes his hand; I can't even wrestle with him.

After he raises his hand.

When he hit me I was more surprised than ever. I feel only pain.

Assassin's language is funny.

It's a world where killing someone is nothing great. Our normality, everyday life. It doesn't have to be hatred. Someone just annoys you. Probably that's why hitting someone is so strange. It's suppression of emotions, more like a message which you have to read. The question of pride.

When he gets up he doesn't even look at me.

"If you dream about death you can do what you want. I'm not like this idiot, Colonello. I'm not going to protect you. And you're not going to do it for me too. Both of us value our lives, we won't sacrifice it. "

When he finishes he leans over the body and begins to remove the daggers. Every time I look with an enchantment how meticulously he cleans each blade, making clear that he valued it more than human. I can't believe how precise and delicate he can be. For knives.

Surprisingly he speaks again, continuing what he said a moment ago.

"But if you want to die, do it on your own terms. You are a member of the Varia; you always will be, even after death. Do you want to destroy our reputation? You want to die attacked from behind, having no chance to defend? "

I do not answer. In my memory I search for those few facts about our future life I heard from the captain. They saw it in the future. Their lives. I wasn't with them. If in future, if I committed a suicide, would I have died on my own terms?

"Isn't it a proud death? To die on the battlefield? "

He puts the knife away. When I look at him, I feel relieved. I can see mischievous smile on his face. This one which I always see. He's smiling, tired and covered with blood - this is the Bel I know. I am glad that this other Bel disappeared. Who frightened me. I never saw him angry. He's always amused, executing his orders without batting an eye. Even when he argues with someone in our headquarters he's just annoyed.

When he hit me, it was the first time I saw Bel furious.

Now he laughs characteristically.

"Shishishishi ... And you're the one who says that? You managed to escape from the battlefield when the situation became uncomfortable. You never cared about heroic death. Or pride. The only thing you want is convenience. So you should thank the prince on your knees for help. "

Again he's silent, around us is quiet. Somewhere in the distance we hear the screams of our captain which announcing the imminent end of the fight. Again, we won. As usual. There are only dead bodies of enemies; in their still, open eyes I can see fear. The last moments of his life... We killed everyone.

He looks at them longer than me, more carefully. I don't want to feel it. Our battlefield is just blood and flesh.

Bel points his finger at them.

"This is what you call a proud death? It is rather pathetic. If you want to die like that just ask me. I'll be happy to do it for you ..."

I reply almost immediately, without thinking. Once again I do something when I rather should be quiet and observe. I'm acting on impulse. In my head I admit that I do it often if I'm with him.

"If I ever want to die then I'll do it myself. But for now, I'm alive. Do you hear me? I live ... I'm not going to go away. "

Bel just sighs. He hides the last silver, shiny knife in the pocket of his coat. To my surprise he grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet sneering.

"Who worried about you? I don't care whether you live or nor. "

I answer him indifferently, teasing him like a child. He chuckles to himself, pulling me by the hair. Although our behavior changed, I feel like I used to when I was an Arcobaleno.

I come to the conclusion that I should thank him for coming after me during the Battle of Sky.

* * *

><p>That evening I came to his room. I thanked him. Then he told me a story.<p>

I felt strange when I was sitting next to him and listening to this bloody story. It could be a dark, European fairy tale about a little, lost prince. But fairy tales for children are different. Sometimes it starts like that, but never ends in this way...

Once upon a time there lived a little Prince. He lived in a big castle, surrounded by the beauty and splendor. He had everything he asked for. If he had dreamed about the star from the highest layers of the sky, a hundred of servants who bowled before him every day would make a ladder so high that Prince would be able to climb up to the heaven and higher. But Prince never wanted the stars of heaven, the sand from desert or crystals from the moon. He seemed to have no dreams and despised the dedication. Little Prince spent his days and nights in golden chambers, he didn't talk to anyone. The only person who awakened emotions in Prince was his brother. And this was the greatest feeling of hatred. Little Prince wanted only his brother's death. But no matter how many times he ordered his servant to kill his brother, their answer was always the same.

My prince, it is the only thing we can't do for you.

Killing his brother became the only dream prince had. He knew that the King and Queen were looking at him every day. He knew that they saw it in his eyes, his murderous intentions, the envy stronger than anything else in this world. The King and Queen looked at their twin sons day after day without interrupting their fights. They knew that one day Cain will kill Abel. But none of them seemed to care, dealing with their own affairs.

Little Prince always lost.

Whether he fought fair or not. Whether he had a plan or acted without thinking, directly or by surprise, Prince never managed to kill his brother.

He felt that his parents looked at all the failures with disgust. His twin brother would get the crown in the future. And then he would banished from the kingdom, none of his hundreds of servants could do anything to help him. The Prince trained again and again, without respite, ten days and ten nights. The more Prince tried, the more painful defeats became. The more he hated his brother, the more he hated all the people around him. Little Prince began to spend hours in his vast chamber, made of the purest gold.

Prince's brother never came there, reveling in his victories. Prince's parents never came there, they didn't have even a single free moment. The servants never came there; they were tired of Prince's fury. Little Prince was always alone, surrounded by silence. And even when he cried, sometimes at night, no one came. Nobody heard. Everyone forgot about him. A great room was getting colder ... and colder...

Prince was accustomed to the solitude, and to the cold. He ceased to call anyone or to dream about a different fate. Acceptance. Nothing more. Once, one of the governesses told him that he is a true genius. So he understood that the world is cold, and could do nothing about it.

One night, when the storm raged outside, the Little Prince woke up and started to watch the storm, bewitched. He understood this beauty. It had the strength which he lacked. Powerful, destructive flames consuming everything in its path, leaving only ashes. Clean, scarlet flames. Warm fire.

Unbridled, beautiful storm. Little Prince wanted to be like it.

Under the cover of night, he went to the room of his older twin brother. He found him unarmed, during sleep. It was a lot easier than he thought. Draught dagger in the flesh, pierce the heart like a soap bubble. That death didn't give him satisfaction. He still felt hated. But the Prince soon discovered something. Something he had never imagined.

The blood was warm.

The blood covering his hands, belonging to the cold, icy world was warm. And the Prince didn't remember when the last time he felt heat was. He wanted it so much.

It is not enough. The Prince wanted to feel more. So he went to the bedroom of his parents, and then to his siblings, and the entire service. He killed everyone. He left no survivors. Murder gave him warmth which he didn't get from any living man.

When the Prince finished, he left. He closed the door of his fairy-tale castle and walked away on the red path of death. But before he left this home forever, he decided to leave something else. Something besides the murdered family.

Scarlet flames.

He stood quietly and watched as during the storm his old house was burning red.

He decided to go further, taking away people their warmth forever.

He finished his story, I sat without a word. I didn't know why he wanted to tell his story so suddenly. I never thought he would ever tell me something about himself. He smiled cheerfully.

"What, you don't believe me?"

I denied it. I wasn't sure whether I should believe him. I knew that he could lie without compunction or reason. Just another game, guessing game about who he is. If it's a game a story couldn't be true. But at the same time in this tale was a frightening truthfulness. Accuracy. Or rather piece of Belphegor was telling me that he would have behaved like that. That is a fact.

"I don't know what to believe. That's all. "

He chuckled softly and shrugged. Everything I said before was only lies? No, rather "this topic has become boring. I told you the truth, now you can do what you want". And yet something unspeakable. Smuggled between the lines. I didn't see his eyes but I could feel the expectant look.

Now it's my turn.

I never told anyone about my past. I didn't say one word. I wasn't even sure if I could remember it perfectly after many years. I tried to forget about it for so many years... I convinced myself that this was all a lie. It happened to someone else. Not me. Another of the many illusions of my life. Another fairytale...

I guess that's why I hated my face so badly. At every step it reminded me of who I am.

When I opened my mouth I was surprised. I agreed, although he didn't even ask for it. But I had to say it.

Once upon a time there lived a little girl. She hadn't a mother, nor father. When she was a baby, she was found on the steps of an orphanage. Her parents abandoned her and they never returned. Thus, she grew up alone, among the other orphans.

Teachers loved the girl and treated like their own daughter. They brushed her long, blue hair and weaved ribbon in it. They repeated that the girl was beautiful. Her petite build, white skin and big, violet eyes were beautiful.

However, other children had never liked her. They kept at a distance, as if something was wrong with the girl. The shadow. The aura. And this look. Children saw something disturbing in it.

The girl grew and became more and more beautiful. But the older she was, the more things happening. Different things which couldn't be explained rationally. Something appeared and then disappeared... Someone saw something that shouldn't exist... The truth began to mix with a fiction. Illusions were among them, uncontrolled. Incomprehensible to anyone. Witchcraft.

Teachers tried to explain everything logically. But the children knew. They knew that the girl wasn't one of them. She could make things that actually didn't existed. She could find other children even if she didn't know where they are. She hovered over the ground like a ghost.

The children knew that she was a demon.

None of the teachers believed in the stories told constantly, without end. But suddenly they began to talk with the girl less. The one who they loved like a daughter. They didn't brush her long hair. They didn't say that she was beautiful.

So the girl was always alone. She didn't talk with anyone. She didn't have anyone. Everyone was afraid of her. They fled. They hated. Sometimes, in warm and sunny days, she talked with small animals. She liked frogs. The frogs always listened, and others hated her even more. Slowly, one by one, they began to approach her. First timidly, still with fear. They soon understood. They noticed that the girl herself couldn't do anything. Not consciously. So the fear disappeared. And the torment began. Beating. Degrading.

The girl was afraid. But she knew that others were afraid of her more. That was why she hated them. She hated this place. She hated the parents who abandoned it.

And most of all, she hated herself.

If she had been normal, her mother wouldn't have left her in an orphanage. If she had been normal, others wouldn't have humiliated her. Because if she had been normal, these strange things wouldn't happen around her.

But it was abnormal. And she feared this more than anything else.

One night, when the raindrops hit the glass thick, everything changed. The night was the same as always. But it turned out to be different. The girl woke up at midnight. Others stood over her, formed a circle around her bed. They prevented escape. She felt something wet, like someone poured a liquid on her whole bed.

The girl was terrified. Too frightened to scream.

However, they explained to her everything. Why they must do it. Once, in the days of kings and dragons, witches were burned at the stake. They were sent back to Satan, they belonged to him. To hell.

Next thing she remembered was a fire. Small, almost inadvertently thrown match plunged her bed in the fire in a second. She was burning. She felt the flames licked her body, paralyzing her. She screamed and cried but nobody paid any attention to her request. Everyone was happy. Satisfied that the demon will die. And then she screamed one last time.

The little girl woke up later. Minutes, hours, days... She didn't know how much time passed. She could've slept in the deserted castle like a Sleeping Beauty, a hundred years. But prince didn't wake her up. It was pain. Her whole body hurt. It hurt like nothing else. All the walls covered with blood. Other children were dead. Their bodies exploded, their guts were everywhere. Blood, corpses and the smell of burning. She cried. She screamed. Pain and fear. That's what she was. A demon.

She escaped in the night. Then someone found her in the city and took to the hospital. She was no longer beautiful. Her face was covered with scars. It disfigured her and reminded her about the past. So she hid her face under the hood. No one could see the real her. She lived on the street, hungry, in poverty. And then she began to control her abilities. To make money. Break out of the street. She wanted to rely on herself.

She dreamed about her own world.

Bel didn't smile.

"Sad story. It's true? "

For some reason, even though I saw again the night when I started to hate blood, I smiled. I felt strange. It didn't hurt so much I thought it would. This story really became just a fairy tale which we can tell in the middle of the night. I understood what it was.

Relief.

I didn't have to cry, he knew. Perhaps Prince the Ripper just saved my life a second time. He changed my future. When I told him everything I felt that I was free. Will I feel fear? Will I commit suicide in ten years?

I smiled sadly.

"Sad stories."

* * *

><p>He never said he loves me.<p>

I didn't care. It wasn't really important for me.

He often calls me his favorite doll. A toy. His property. Something that he doesn't want to share with anyone. My words are nothing. It's pointless to repeat that I am not anyone's property. He treated me possessive, like a thing. He was like a child. But I knew that it means something. It was jealousy. He saw me as his doll, I was important to him. Because he wanted me to have just for himself.

I don't expect that would come to rescue me if I was threatened. I wouldn't do it for him too. It would be illogical to expect from him something that I can't give. We are Varia. The best group of killers. I never devote my live for someone else.

But if it doesn't require sacrificing life... If he knows that he has the advantage. Those times, he always comes after me. Maybe for fun? More for himself rather than for me? But it doesn't change the fact that he would come. And, unlike me, he doesn't expect payment.

Why should I ignore it and focus on what he doesn't give me? Should I not appreciate the little affection, perhaps for him even care, which only I get? Should I hate him because he treats me like a doll? I'm used to taking everything I get. In the end, I was materialistic.

I know that he does not love me. I also do not love him. This isn't love. The Varia is no such thing as love.

But sometimes when I lie next to him he asks me if I can take off the illusion. I show him my scars. I don't like it, but I always agree. I know what he'll say. And I want to hear it. Then he kisses my destroyed by fire body and repeats that my scars are beautiful.

It reminds me of the teachers who repeated to me that I was beautiful...

But he never said I was beautiful. That's my scars. I can read between the lines. He loves them because they are proofs of my suffering. These blood. Those tears. These pain. That's why he wants to see them. Bel always, even to me, is a monster. He will never love anything but death.

Then I lightly shove his hair to look into his eyes. He always tries to stop me but I never let him. So he agrees. Give and take. I do not know why I like his eyes. Maybe it's because he hides them and I'm the only one who knows how they look? Once he asked me about it. I answered hesitantly.

"They are suitable for you..."

I like looking in his eyes, as red as rubies. No, no rubies. Blood. Even in his eyes I can see death, I almost hear the screams of his victims. I'm not afraid. That is my Belphegor.

Although he loves my scars, I don't blame him. Scars are a part of me. And it means that he loves me too. So maybe this is love? Can I love someone and still not feel the slightest sadness if something happens to him? We're not normal. We are not like others. So I let him kiss my scars.

We are not important for each other...


End file.
